“The hell you don’t.”
Farrell yanked open the next drawer, continuing her search.
“Stop rummaging through my drawers or I’m going to call security.”
“Call away. And I’ll tell the guards and anyone else who happens to be walking by and sees all the hubbub, that you, Dean Cohen, are a liar, a sneak, and a thief!”
“You better watch out, Farrell.”
“Of course, they may not be sure they can believe me,” she said, pulling open another drawer. “But the seeds of doubt will be planted in their minds. It will be my happy legacy to you, dear Dean, that even after I’m gone from the hallowed halls of KEY News, people will look at you and wonder if you really are the dishonest slimeball I said you were. You know how happy news travels around here.”
“You’re not going to find your tape in my desk, Farrell,” Dean said quietly.
“Well, it sure as hell better turn up soon.”
Chapter 109
Friday of the Fifth Week of Lent
Inside the cavernous expanse of the United Nations building on New York City’s East Side, Professor Tim Kavanagh leaned over the railing with the students he was escorting from Seton Hall University’s School of Diplomacy and International Relations, and watched the giant metal globe sway back and forth on its wire pendulum.
The artist who had designed the moving display had managed to convey a united world.
“Come on, gang. The lecture starts in ten minutes.”
Kavanagh led the group of hopeful future diplomats to the auditorium where they were to hear a talk on the history of the UN, and the new trends in diplomacy caused by the realignment of global power structures. Once the students had taken their seats and the UN lecturer had begun, Professor Kavanagh slipped out of the room. He had a good hour and a half to kill before he had to come back.
Chapter 110
As Churchill’s closed for the day, the killer hid in a locked stall in the downstairs restroom, feet up on the toilet seat. The door to the bathroom opened as a security guard made a cursory check of the room to make sure that it was empty for the night. The killer didn’t even breathe.
Hearing the door click shut, five silent minutes went by. Leaving the stall, a quick look in the mirror over the bathroom sink. So that’s what a murderer looks like just before the deed is done. Wide-eyed but calm.
Stealthily, up the back stairs to the locker room, opening the door slowly and without a sound. If anyone other than Tony was there, the excuse would be simple: just lost in the maze of Churchill’s building.
But no one else was there. Just Tony.
Tony was standing, back to the locker-room door. His furry headpiece sat on the bench next to his locker and he whistled absentmindedly as he pulled off the blue cossack coat. Poor stiff. Whistling one moment, dead the next.
Chapter 111
B. J., you’ve got to snap out of it, man. You’re obsessing over this. Maybe you should get some professional help.
Sitting alone in a darkened editing booth, B. J. played the tape again. At the time he shot it, he had thought it would be fun to play back for Meryl later. But there was no later.
He had made sure to get every shot Farrell could possibly want for her piece on the Paradise auction. Every costume, poster, and set design. He had shot pictures of the audience for Farrell to use later for cutaways. He had taken long shots of the auction gallery for the tape editor to choose as possible openings shots.
But at every other opportunity, when he had felt certain he was not missing something Farrell would need, B. J. had trained his camera on his girlfriend. Meryl, his lovely Meryl.
He watched the video as the beautiful woman with the dark, straight hair stood vigilant as the auction progressed. It was Meryl’s job to be watchful, to do her part to make sure that everything ran smoothly.
“Beej, don’t torture yourself, honey.”
Farrell stood in the doorway of the editing room.
“Come on, let me take you out for dinner. It’s been a long week.”
“God, Farrell, I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I know.”
Farrell put her hand on B. J.’s shoulder and together they watched the tape.
Suddenly Farrell snapped, “Roll that tape back!”
Automatically B. J. pushed the rewind and then the play buttons, and the producer and cameraman studied the television monitor.
“Look who’s following Meryl out of the auction gallery!”
Chapter 112
“Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“Jack McCord, please. It’s urgent.”
Farrell waited what seemed like an eternity listening to the silence, praying to hear Jack’s voice.
The operator came back on the line. “Mr. McCord is not in the office. But I can reach him. May I take a message for him?”
Farrell’s heart sank.
“Yes. Tell him Farrell Slater called. Tell him to get back to me right away. It’s very important. He has my numbers. It probably would be best if he beeped me.”
Chapter 113
Tony felt something snap around his neck. Instinctively he reached for his throat, trying to pry the band that strangled him. He was choking. He heard the sounds coming from his mouth. Convulsively gasping, gulping for air. So, this is what dying sounds like.
It all happened so quickly. Sensing that this action would be his last, Tony dropped his hands from around his throat, reaching down behind his back. He grabbed hold of the killer’s crotch and squeezed hard with all that was left of his strength.
The attacker shrieked and Tony felt the band around his neck loosen. As Tony collapsed on the locker-room floor, the killer doubled over, yelping like a wounded animal.
Chapter 114
An hour after her call to the FBI, Farrell’s beeper went off and she dialed the displayed callback number.
“McCord.”
“It’s me.”
“What’s up?”
She told him about the videotape. He was quiet for a minute but he didn’t sound surprised when he responded.
“That makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“The police were just called to Churchill’s. Victor Paradise left the auction house in a body bag.”
Chapter 115
Jack flashed his Federal Bureau of Investigation credentials and he and Farrell were able to go right up to to Tony’s room at New York Hospital. The doorman lay in his hospital bed, pale, with his eyes closed. The man’s thick neck was black, blue, and angry red. Tony opened his eyes when Jack cleared his throat. They introduced themselves.
“How are you feeling?”
“Sore, and I’ve got a helluva headache.”
“Can you tell us what happened?” Jack asked quietly.
“The guy came at me from behind,” Tony croaked. “It was terrible, but I managed to grab him in the nuts.” He looked at Farrell. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve heard worse,” Farrell reassured him.
“Anyway, we both fell to the floor. I managed to reach for the gun I keep in my locker and I shot him. That’s all she wrote. I wasn’t going to give him a chance to come at me again. Once was enough.” Tony winced as he swallowed.
“Do you have any idea why Victor Paradise would try to kill you?” Farrell asked.
“No, ma’am. I’ve seen the guy lots of times when he’d bring his mother into the house. He always seemed like a nice enough guy.”
Tony winced; the sound of his own voice seemed to be making his pain worse. Farrell and Jack leaned a little closer so Tony didn’t have to strain.
“Nice,” Tony continued, “but not too smart. You know, the wheel was spinning, but the hamster was dead.” Tony put his index finger up to his temple and turned it around and around in the air. “We usually ended up talking about working out.”
“One more question and we’ll let you get some rest, Tony. Did you notice Victor Paradise talking to Meryl Quan th
e day of the Paradise auction?” Jack asked.
Tony tried to recall. “Can’t say as I did.”
Chapter 116
Clifford Montgomery opened the door to his office to let his visitor in.
“Working weekends again, Clifford?”
“What in hell are you doing here?” he hissed angrily, shepherding the visitor inside and closing the door quickly behind them.
“Relax, Clifford. Relax. My being here is not going to be a problem for you. Not unless you fail to do as I say.”
Clifford glared sullenly. “Relax, my ass. How can I relax with two people killed here in as many weeks? I’d think you’d be a little more upset than you are.”
“Meryl Quan had to go—she knew too much and was ready to tell. I’d think you’d be gratified that I had her taken care of.”
“And Victor Paradise?”
“Victor was a stooge. Useful for pruning and clearing away the deadwood—but actually it’s cleaner this way. With him gone, there’s one less person to trip us up. Victor was no brain surgeon, and sooner or later he might have given something away. He served his purpose, getting rid of Meryl, and I’m sure that the police will be satisfied that her murderer is lying on a slab down at the morgue.”
Clifford was stupefied by his visitor’s cold audacity.
“Now, the doorman needn’t be killed, even if he did see poor Victor walking out with Meryl to the freight elevator.”
“You are one cold customer,” Clifford observed.
“Yes. And I want my cold, hard cash. Cut me my check now.”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“Come again?”
“I can’t just write you a check for six million dollars. It has to be done through the accounting department. The last time I inquired, they hadn’t gotten the money from the buyer yet.”
“Who is the damn buyer, anyway?”
“I’m not telling you. I’m more afraid of the buyer than I am of you.”
The visitor tried not to lose control. Keep calm, don’t lose your temper.
“Clifford, you don’t seem to understand. Let me explain it to you again. If you don’t give me that money, I am going to let the feds know everything. Anonymously, of course. And you and your precious Churchill’s will be ruined.”
“But you won’t have your six million dollars, either.” Clifford smiled at the thought.
The visitor decided it was time to take a conciliatory tack. “Look. Let’s work together here. We’ve always been able to work things out in the past. We can figure this out. I don’t know who bought the egg, and frankly, I don’t care. As I see it, the only real problem we have here is if the real Moon Egg turns up.”
“If you knew who bought your fake egg at auction, you damn well would care.”
Chapter 117
Palm Sunday
Farrell spread a flowered cloth over the round table and set it for two. A fresh peach-scented candle perched in a brass candlestick, and a bunch of white tulips stood at attention in a glass vase that she placed in the middle of the table. That was about as Martha Stewart as she got. Take it or leave it.
She surveyed the apartment and realized that it looked inviting now. With Pat’s help, the touches they had added created a whole new feel for the room. Salmon and seafoam-green colors lay beneath the coffee table. Her books were now off the floor and arranged with care in the bookcase. Two large brass sconces hung on the wall on either side of the bookcase, apricot candles flickering welcomingly from them. A tiny oil painting of an old man reading a newspaper, a monkey sitting on his shoulder, rested on a wire easel on a mahogany butler’s table, another Consignment Depot find. Farrell hadn’t spent a lot of money, but the results of the few careful purchases made a big difference.
When Jack arrived, he kissed her and smelled the Pleasures perfume she had sprayed on the front of her neck and behind her ears. As she led him into the living room, he eyed the table in the small dining room beyond, appreciating the effort.
“Drink?”
“You have any scotch?”
“Dewar’s on the rocks, coming right up.”
Farrell poured the tawny liquid over a glass of ice and added a lemon twist.
“Ah, this hits the spot. Thanks.” Jack eased himself into the couch beneath the window. He stretched out his long legs and let out a deep sigh of relief.
“So what do you think, Jack? Did Victor set the fire at Olga’s?”
“Don’t know. We’ll have to get a picture of him and show it to the old lady.”
“When will that be done?” Farrell pressed, as she stood over him.
“Hey, you,” he smiled, putting down his drink and pulling her down into his lap. “Let’s just enjoy each other’s company tonight, shall we? I think we deserve a little rest and relaxation.”
“Not to mention a little fun, I see.” Farrell kissed him hungrily, then pulled away. “But let’s not get too distracted. I have a dinner all planned and you’ve got to realize that, for me, this is a major undertaking. I mustn’t be distracted.”
Jack laughed. “Okay. I can wait for dessert until later. What are we having?”
“Lamb. Lamb and asparagus and roasted potatoes.”
“Farrell, I had no idea I was in the presence of such a culinary master.”
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m really trying here.”
“I know you are,” Jack relented. He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “How can I help?”
“I thought we’d start with some of Olga’s eggplant caviar. It’s in the fridge.”
As Jack went to the refrigerator to take out the mason jar filled with the old woman’s homemade concoction, Farrell flinched with recognition, feeling the skin tingle on the back of her neck.
Eggplant—plant the egg!
Chapter 118
Range Bullock caught the late local television news Sunday evening before turning in for the night. The lead story gripped him.
“Double murder at Churchill’s,” trumpeted the New York anchor, who went on to recount that a female employee and, now, a patron had both been killed at the exclusive auction house in the past two weeks.
It was time to do the story for national broadcast. As Range switched off the light, he resolved to talk to Farrell about it first thing in the morning. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in not encouraging her to do the Fabergé egg story sooner.
Chapter 119
Monday of Holy Week
She could tell she was waking him up.
“Hello,” Peter croaked groggily.
“Peter, it’s Farrell. I’m sorry to have wakened you. I thought ten A.M. would be a safe time. I forgot what it is to be a college student.”
“No, no. That’s okay, Farrell. I have to get up anyway. I have one more midterm before spring break and I need to get a little more study time in. I was up late last night cracking the books. What’s up, anyway?”
“Just a quick question.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you get at that jar of Olga’s eggplant caviar yet?”
“Are you kidding? I polished that off a long time ago.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary about it?”
“No, it was as good as ever. I love that stuff. Isn’t it great news about Olga? She’s getting out of the hospital this week!”
“Yeah, Peter. Your mom told me. That is great news. Before you know it, she’ll be making caviar for you again.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Peter, one more thing. Do you have Professor Kavanagh’s home number?”
“Nope. But I think he lives in Maplewood. Maybe the operator has it.”
“Thanks, Peter. I’ll see you Sunday. Your mother invited me for Easter dinner.”
Chapter 120
Farrell took the elevator down to the Evening Headlines studio, answering Range’s call summoning her to the Fishbowl. She felt nostalgic. This was her last week at KEY News.
The poignant feeling that swept over
her, changed to disgust when she saw that old suck-up Dean stationed on the couch across from Range’s desk. She couldn’t even bring herself to acknowledge him.
Range got right to the point. “Farrell, I think, with the Churchill’s murders, there is enough to make a piece now, Moon Egg or no Moon Egg. I see it as ‘What’s Happening at Churchill’s?’ You’ll have to be careful, have the facts to back up whatever you allege. Do you think you can get it together by Friday? I’d like to pencil you in for the ‘KEYhole on America’ slot. Two and a half minutes.”
Farrell listened to Range’s directions. How ironic! Her last story for KEY News would be a “KEYhole” piece, the coveted slot on the broadcast. It would air on Good Friday. The anniversary of the crucifixion. Perhaps it was a sign she would rise again, another life after KEY News.
She mentally smacked herself. Cut it out. Don’t read anything ridiculous into the timing of this.
“I can get it together by then,” she answered determinedly.
Chapter 121
Farrell remembered she probably wouldn’t have to deal with directory assistance to get the number in Maplewood, New Jersey. She called Westwood instead.
“Hello?”
“Pat, it’s Farrell.”
“Now, I told you already, you don’t have to bring anything on Sunday.”
“No, it’s not about Easter. I should have remembered, I need Tim Kavanagh’s number at home. I’ve been trying to reach him at Seton Hall, but it’s Holy Week, and spring break begins on Wednesday.”
“What’s up, Farrell?”
“Oh, it’s just a hunch, Pat, and I’m going to feel pretty silly when it doesn’t pan out. I promise to tell you all about it when I see you on Sunday.”
Do You Promise Not To Tell? Page 16